


Arm ourselves with lovers’ darts

by milverton



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Fairies, Frottage, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Protectiveness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-16
Updated: 2014-07-16
Packaged: 2018-02-09 01:33:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1963932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/milverton/pseuds/milverton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John overreacted. Sherlock really didn’t mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Arm ourselves with lovers’ darts

**Author's Note:**

  * For [forsciencejohn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/forsciencejohn/gifts).



> Written for Exchangelock ’14. Forsciencejohn wanted a Victorian!AU--writing BBC!Sherlock and BBC!John in the Victorian Era was a challenge for me because I was worried about it all seeming too ACD-y. But hey, it ain't called an “AU Challenge” for nothing. I just hope I succeeded in keeping the BBC characters’ essences. Title is from Gilbert and Sullivan’s _Iolanthe_. John’s last bits of dialogue are also taken from _Iolanthe_.

**April 1883**

“Such a sublime performance! Purely sublime! The chorus of peers was simply arresting! And the musicianship of the first act finale? Sheer enviable artistry! I will think of nothing but it for weeks! Oh, and the sentry’s song—”

John tuned out. He could not listen to the repulsive cad any longer. All he could think of were the poor women who he had murdered and his current unsuspecting female companion, likely to have been the fiend’s next prey (that is, if John and Sherlock had not been there to stop him).

How could a doctor, a man who was supposed to be the altruistic saviour of the weak, have gone so very _wrong?_

Dr William Bradshaw’s companion inclined her head thoughtfully, listening to Bradshaw’s gushing review of _Iolanthe._  She was completely oblivious to the man’s true monstrous nature.

But John knew his true nature—as did Sherlock Holmes.

Recently, two wealthy spinsters were found dead in their flats in a seemingly unrelated set of crimes. Scotland Yard had quickly dismissed the deaths as food poisonings and nothing more. A week later, a young woman (who wished to remain anonymous) turned up at 221b’s doorstep relaying the information that those responsible for investigating the case of the dead spinsters had been bribed to suppress the truth. Sherlock had the victims promptly disinterred and thoroughly examined and it was concluded that one had died of strychnine poisoning and the other, arsenic.

In due time, Sherlock determined the connection; the two victims had both been patients of the reputable Dr William Bradshaw. In fact, through various cryptic correspondences, Sherlock discerned that the women had had intimate assignations with Bradshaw. However, it was there in the wills that betrayed Bradshaw’s true motive: a majority of the victims’s wealth had been bequeathed to Bradshaw.

Scotland Yard were blissfully unaware of Sherlock’s private investigation of the matter. Once Bradshaw was apprehended, Sherlock’s plan was to utilise his homeless network to fetch Lestrade so the Inspector could make the arrest. And the case would be closed.

Sherlock threaded his arm through John’s as they trailed Bradshaw out of the Savoy Theatre onto the pavement. Titters of laughter surrounded them, some theatre goers recounting the more amusing moments of the performance, others rushing to the kerb and calling for hansoms.

Sherlock leaned down and whispered, his lips brushing against the shell of John’s ear, so feather-light it was as if John had been touched by a ghost, “As discussed, I will distract him. Then, on my signal, you will keep him immobile while I send Billy on his way to the Yard.”

This had been their best opportunity to catch the fiend; if they had ambushed Bradshaw in his home it was more likely he’d have used a weapon against them. Here, within the crowd of theatre attendees, Bradshaw was more vulnerable and Sherlock and John could hide in plain sight. (And John really quite liked Gilbert and Sullivan, had enjoyed the performance, had enjoyed the liberating privacy of their box where John was able to hold and kiss Sherlock’s lovely hand somewhere other than the confines of their flat. Sherlock, on the other hand, did not like Gilbert and Sullivan. But, though surely Sherlock would not admit it, he did enjoy being lavished with kisses).

John nodded his understanding of the plan. As Sherlock slipped his arm from where it was locked with John’s and continued into the crowd, John remained out of sight but close, watching Sherlock progress toward Bradshaw with increasing anxiety and, admittedly, excitement.

Sherlock loved the puzzles a case often brought him. John had an appreciation for the puzzles as well, of course. He had an appreciation for Sherlock’s masterfully putting the pieces of a puzzle together. But he also loved this, he loved it very much, the thrill of catching their hateful quarry.

“Doctor! Thank heavens you’re here,” Sherlock announced theatrically causing Bradshaw, his companion, and some of the crowd to turn their attentions upon him. “I have—first of all, how rude of me. I should introduce myself. Mycroft Holmes, how do you do?” Sherlock said, holding out his gloved hand in polite greeting. Bradshaw sceptically regarded Sherlock’s hand before deciding to give it a shake. “I have an awfully painful throbbing sensation on my upper thigh and I need your magic touch to heal it."

Sherlock was causing a great scene, attracting a group of scandalised onlookers. But, as was his wont, he didn’t care a tic for the disturbed looks and carried on effortlessly his with his one man show.

“In fact,” continued Sherlock, making his voice sound shaky and frightened. “I fear I may be dying. Would you please be ever so gracious and take a look?”

Bradshaw sputtered. “Mr Holmes, I—“

“ _Please._ You must examine me. Not right here, of course. I would be rather embarrassed.” John snorted in amusement; Sherlock was speaking so loudly that no one would have claimed he was shy in any way about his supposed affliction of the thigh.

“How—“

“Ah, yes. You are wondering how I could possibly know who you are. I have asked around for some medical aid and you were recommended.”

“I say! Mr Holmes, this is very inappropriate!” Bradshaw crowed indignantly. “For goodness sake! Perhaps you can come see me at my practice some day and I can give you the examination you so desire. I can give you my calling card—“

“There’s…no…time…” Sherlock croaked, his leg wobbling exaggeratedly, falling dramatically to the ground in a limp heap. A slew of gasps sounded around him.

John stood his ground and waited for Sherlock’s signal to strike. But none came and then Bradshaw was on his knees beside Sherlock, palpating Sherlock’s legs, up to his thighs and that—that was all the signal John needed. All rationality dissipated into thin air and bullheaded protective anger took its place and he could think of nothing but _how dare he touch Sherlock how dare he._  John, adrenaline pulsing, surged forward, taking Bradshaw down in a tackle he had perfected during his tenure with the Blackheath Rugby Club.

As John and Bradshaw landed on the pavement with a thump, John vaguely heard Sherlock clearing his voice and roaring, “Billy, go! Go, you imbecile! To the Yard!” John and Bradshaw tussled for a few moments but Bradshaw was no match for John, flailing hopelessly beneath him, unable to pry himself from John’s ironclad force.

“What is the meaning of this? Unhand me!” Bradshaw managed to huff out shakily. He looked over John’s shoulder with bulging eyes and addressed who John supposed was his female friend. “Darling, sweet princess, help your precious William—“

John, having no patience for the man’s sycophantic pleading, took Bradshaw in a choke-hold, silencing him and causing him to splutter. “You are a damn disgrace,” John hissed into Bradshaw’s ear, giving his neck another tight squeeze. “Those poor, innocent women you killed. How can you call yourself a doctor? How could you have betrayed them so?” 

"Good for nothing but their money!" Bradshaw managed to gasp out.

John, enraged, pushed Bradshaw to the ground, his knee pining the man in place, one hand pressing on Bradshaw's skull, mashing his face into the pavement for a few moments before growing tired of the position, hoisting Bradshaw back up and returning him to a choke-hold. John paid no mind of what was going on around him, had no idea how much time had passed so focussed was he on restraining Bradshaw—until he heard Inspector Lestrade’s voice.

“Sherlock Holmes! I should have known. What the devil is going on? Oh, hello. By Jove, Dr Watson, who is the man turning purple your arms?”

John smirked. “Oh, Inspector, just an old schoolmate of mine. I thought we would have a bit of an impromptu wrestle in front of the Savoy Theatre. As you do.”

Inspector Lestrade, despite himself, laughed.

“In this envelope,” Sherlock interrupted impatiently, proffering an envelope to Lestrade. “You will find all the evidence for this man’s--Dr William Bradshaw’s--murders of Miss Eleanor Crawley and Miss Agatha Crestchild.”

There were wails of shock around them while Lestrade, ever the long-suffering but loyal friend, merely took the envelope, gave Sherlock a look of abject exasperation and asked no questions. John shoved Bradshaw at Lestrade, who promptly used handcuffs to restrain the blackguard once and for all. “Congratulations, Lestrade,” said Sherlock. “This arrest will undoubtedly make you Scotland Yard’s pride and joy. Now, Dr Watson and I must bid you _adieu_.”

Before John even knew it, he was being pulled away from the scene by Sherlock, Lestrade yelling out after them. 

“Sherlock!” John barked, pulling himself free of Sherlock’s vice grip. Beneath the dim lighting of the electric street light, noticed Sherlock’s cheeks were tinged pink, his chest heaving powerfully, verdigris eyes intense and gazing upon him. John blinked. “We cannot simply leave Inspector Lestrade alone.” Sherlock did not respond. “Sherlock? What—are you quite all right?”

Sherlock bowed his head slightly, looked up from his lashes, pitched his already deep voice lower and said, “I need you to take me to bed.”

The words rattled John’s bones, his knees could have gave way and, in that moment, he could have created a true reenactment of what Sherlock had performed earlier. “Yes,” John said desperately, wanting to rush forward and take Sherlock in his arms, kiss him and ravage him right there behind the Savoy in the cool night air, the smell of the Thames wafting in the distance but that was, of course, not an option; thankfully, Sherlock was sensible, was already in the street whistling for a hansom in order to go home. Soon, they were riding on toward Baker Street, thick anticipation coating their silence, trying to quell his burgeoning arousal until they were home.

Once in the sanctuary of the sitting room of 221b, the door locked behind them, Sherlock rid himself of his hat and greatcoat, turned to John, prowling toward him, purring, “You became incensed that Bradshaw was touching me, even if it was only for medical purposes. I hadn’t even given the signal and you tackled him.”

John removed his bowler cap and his own greatcoat, then stepped forward, arms encircling Sherlock’s thin waist, and pulled him down for a bruising kiss. “I could have killed him,” John growled against Sherlock’s plush lips, dragging his hand through Sherlock’s perfectly coiffed, combed-back hair, known privately to John to be a delightful mess of curls once mussed. “Anything for you, my love.”

“You are reckless,” Sherlock said but it did not sound accusing, it sounded purely _wanton_ and Sherlock tugged at John’s bottom lip with his teeth, then kissed and sucked at the exposed skin of John’s neck, just above his starched collar. John, desperate to press more of Sherlock’s flesh to his own, pried Sherlock away and hastily helped Sherlock remove his waistcoat, his collar, shirt, his trousers, while Sherlock did the same for John; once stripped to their drawers, Sherlock clasped his hand in John’s and led him toward his bedroom. John, overcome with impatience, roughly pushed Sherlock atop the bed, hovering over him on all fours and dived down to press kisses down and up Sherlock’s bare, lithe torso. “You are so beautiful,” John murmured into Sherlock’s warm skin. “A vision. So very beautiful.”

Sherlock preened and arched his back prettily, letting out a soft moan as John took a nipple in his mouth, flicked his tongue at the nub, then did the same for the other. But then Sherlock was pushing John away, his large, spindly hand pressing against John’s chest, barring John from proceeding with his loving ministrations.

Sherlock furiously wriggled out of his drawers, exposing his flushed erection leaking with pre-come. John’s mouth went dry and he scrambled off the bed, kicking off his own drawers, returning to the bed beside Sherlock, laying on his side and pulling Sherlock close so they were facing each other.

Sherlock ran his hand down from John’s shoulder—carefully so as to not offend the scar—to his sizable bicep, squeezing, then ran his hand down John’s back, rested a hand on his buttocks. John snaked his hand between them, grabbing both of their erections and, using Sherlock’s pre-come as lubricant, stroked them indulgently, twisting his fist on the upstroke in a way that made Sherlock claw at and squeeze John’s buttocks and murmur a string of approbations.

“John, please. That—that is divine. My god-- _John_.” John, after one last squeeze of their cocks, held Sherlock in an embrace as Sherlock let out an elongated moan, spending himself over their chests and the duvet.

Sherlock rolled onto his stomach and sighed, clearly sated, and John, nearly on the edge of his own orgasm, grew hungry at the sight of Sherlock’s pert bottom, swung a leg over to straddle the back of Sherlock’s thighs, fit his cock between the heat of Sherlock’s buttocks and began to thrust between the cheeks, pressing Sherlock roughly into the mattress with each propulsion.

Sherlock merely lay there and spoke lazy, drawling encouragements: “Yes, just like that. Faster, harder. As if you _despise_ me.”

John felt his orgasm ripple through him, grunting as he came on Sherlock’s back.

John flopped supine onto the bed and Sherlock curled into him, one long pale arm draped over his chest. John buried his nose in Sherlock’s hair and closed his eyes.

Breaking the comfortable silence, John, feeling cheeky, began to recite, “If you ask us how we live, lovers all essentials give—“ 

“John, please,” Sherlock groaned. “You must spare me. I have already heard it once today. There is only so much of Gilbert and Sullivan I can endure in a day.” 

John grinned impishly and continued, “We can ride on lovers' sighs, warm ourselves in lovers' eyes—“ 

“Stop!” Sherlock demanded huffily. “I will absolutely have nothing more to do with singing fairies.”

John chuckled. “What precisely do you have against fairies?”

Sherlock disentangled himself from John to glare at him properly. “Are you honestly asking me that? They are infantile creatures."

"I don't believe Schumann would say so."

"I beg your pardon?"

"There is that one piece you enjoy by him; Fairy Tales something or other."

" _Märchenerzählungen_?" Sherlock said in perfect German.

John sighed. "Yes. That."

Sherlock tut-tutted. "That is immensely different."

"How is it different?"

"There are no people parading around in nonsensical fairy costume in  _Märchenerzählungen._ "

"Fine, fine. But I find it endearing."

"Do not speak to me any more."

**Author's Note:**

> Shout out to ACD for his hilarious fascination with fairies? I'm not sure what went on in this fic, really.


End file.
